


New Obsession

by rissalf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Dismemberment, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Knives, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rimming, tiny bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward's descent into darkness reveals an unexpected attraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I haven't written anything in a while.

The scene playing out before him was nothing short of glorious. Drunken imbecile Tom Dougherty quavered on his knees, bleeding out beneath the flickering lights of the elevated train, his dumb face slack-jawed with the realization that he was going to die at the hands of a man whose name he'd probably never bothered to remember. And Edward Nygma, awed and shaking, felt as though he were a voyeur to it all.  
  
He had never been a violent man, never felt the need to hurt someone before. But this, Edward had to admit, was ... fun. With each increasingly confident jab of the knife, he had welled with pride and watched with an almost childlike sense of glee. With each cut he cried out, all the slights and jokes and glares from his peers repaid onto one man, now falling backward into a puddle of his own blood. There was something in the bigger man’s eyes just before he went limp, something that excited Edward more than he ever would have imagined.  
  
Fear.  
  
Officer Dougherty was afraid. Of him.  
  
The first wound had been an accident, truly; in the process of picking Edward up from the ground to accost him further, Dougherty had practically plunged the small blade into himself. Even the second could almost be written off as unintentional — in a certain light. But everything that followed was all Ed, a tentative step into shadow — shadow that urged him to drive the knife into the officer’s bleeding gut again and again and again, with a ferocity that both thrilled and terrified him. His eyes flicked from blood-soaked knife to the cop’s motionless body, and before he could help himself, he’d laughed.  
  
The sound was so foreign. Higher than he’d ever noticed, looser. And once he started, Ed found it difficult to stop. Hours later, with parts of Tom Dougherty strewn across his kitchen table, Ed had dissolved into a full-blown giggling fit. Dismembering the man had awakened a whole new side of Edward, and the sight of that abusive prick's thick, sticky blood dripping down his hands was almost arousing. Well — Ed regards the half-hard bulge in his pants with a sheepish chuckle — more than almost.  
  
It is in the middle of hacking through the man’s thigh that Edward feels his cock twitch beneath the thin plaid fabric of his pants.  
  
It doesn't seem right. And yet...  
  
_Don’t be ashamed, Eddie._  
  
The little voice in his head is silk and shadow, seducing him with a commanding presence Edward finds impossible to ignore. It was the little voice that had helped him fight back, and it is the same little voice urging him on now.  
  
_Think of how he humiliated you. How he insinuated that you were less than a man. Think of the fear in his eyes as you stood over his pitiful, broken body. Look at him. Just another lummox who thought muscles made him invincible. Oh, how wrong he was._  
  
Edward tentatively brushes a hand against his hardening cock and giggles. It _had_ felt good. Killing Dougherty. The blood. The sense of power that came from making him afraid. Ed thinks of the small blade sinking deep into yielding flesh and tugs at his zipper.  
  
“God, you deserved it,” he murmurs. Edward pulls off the bloody surgical gloves with a satisfying snap, then wraps his long, thin fingers around his cock.  
  
He starts with slow, almost lazy strokes, intending to savor this moment the way he’d savored separating Dougherty’s head from his broad shoulders. After all, where’s the fun in rushing? It isn’t as though either of them is going anywhere tonight. Edward looks around to find the severed head, tossed carelessly into a old suitcase, and grins as his hand slides languidly up and down his member.  
  
_What will Kristen Kringle think of you now?_  
  
“Oh God,” he moans under his breath.  
  
This would win her over. It had to. He's rock hard now, imaging her perfect pink lips closing around his swollen cock, her tongue running the length of his shaft and swirling around the tip. Green eyes gazing up at him in adoration. It's only a matter of time before…  
  
Before…  
  
**“Is this- Are you asking me a riddle?”**  
  
Out of nowhere, in the blur of death and ecstasy, a different face comes to mind.  
  
Oswald Cobblepot had dismissed him outright the first time they met, dismissed him the way Kristen Kringle always had. Edward groans. Why does that make him so irresistible? And why is he suddenly thinking of him now?  
  
He had barely thought of the man since that first meeting. Sure, he casually kept track of his comings and goings, making a few notes whenever his name popped up in a case file, though really it was just enough to stay in the know. But now... Now Edward imagines taking him by that mop of jet black hair and shoving the so-called “king’s” face onto his cock. Maybe he'd even beg for it. Yes, Edward shivers, he can picture it perfectly: Oswald Cobblepot on his knees, pleading for the privilege of sucking him off.  
  
Perhaps, at first, he’d resist the idea. After all, a king could never be seen in such a humbling position.  
  
_But you’ll show him, won’t you?_  
  
“Yes,” Edward breathes, cock gleaming with seminal fluid as he pumps his shaft harder and faster.  
  
Reluctance would fade, give way to grudging obedience. Oswald was an intelligent man. Not as smart as Edward, but smart enough to quickly learn his place. In the end, he’d fumble eagerly for Edward’s cock and beg him to fuck his mouth.  
  
_Is that what you want?_  
  
“You...God...yes…” Edward grips the table with his free hand, legs trembling as the pleasure begins to overwhelm him.  
  
Long fingers would twist in Oswald’s hair, pulling him forward until the the tip of Edward’s cock hits the back of his throat. And the King of Gotham would slurp and suck, eager and greedy, until…  
  
Until…  
  
Edward jerks forward and groans, spilling out over the bloody mess on his kitchen table as he imagines covering Oswald’s face with his seed — that contemptuous grin gone, hair matted with sweat, semen dripping off his beak-like nose.  
  
The voice in Edward’s head begins to applaud. _Look at what you’ve done. Truly a masterpiece._  
  
“I- oh dear,” Ed giggles.  
  
He would have to make a point of paying Mr. Cobblepot a visit. And soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to SilentSinger for present-tensing these first two chapters up for me.  
> I will simply have to think of a way to repay you sometime.


	2. The Illustrious Mr. Cobblepot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward needs an ally and surprises Oswald with a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went a bit long, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Part two coming soon.

Edward Nygma had been told, on more than one occasion, that his presence was “unsettling.”  
  
That was what Kristen Kringle had said to her rabble of overeager suitors at the GCPD. That was the word that guidance counselors and casual acquaintances and even his father had used over and over again — most often to others in whispered tones that said this was clearly a bad thing. Edward never quite knew why that was, but now, at last, it was something he could play to his advantage.  
  
_“Unsettling” am I?_ Ed chuckles softly to himself. That would work just fine.  
  
Of course, there was still the matter of harnessing such a power, testing just how far it could take him. And with Oswald Cobblepot still playing center stage in his fantasies, Edward could think of no better place than Penguin’s little club, and no better man to go toe to toe with. It was rumored that Oswald was just as likely to beat a man as look at him these days, but the idea of being on the wrong end of Penguin's wrath was strangely exciting.  
  
Edward parks his car and dashes across the street, moving quickly so as not to soak his new clothes. He'd bought the slim-cut hunter green suit just for this occasion, feeling ever more confident in his well-tailored attire. If there was one thing he'd learned from studying Oswald, it was that appearance was important, and showing up disheveled and sopping wet just wouldn’t do. He giggles to himself as he thinks idly of Oswald and his umbrella. Maybe, if all goes well, he’ll leave with a souvenir.  
  
With nary a hint of hesitation, Edward straightens his patterned silk tie and pushes through the doors of _Oswald's_. At one time, a place like this would have terrified him. How out of place he’d have been, bathed in bright blue lights and drowning beneath the cacophonous drivel that somehow passed as "entertainment" — to say nothing of the club’s more colorful clientele.  
  
That was then, of course. The old Edward. The insignificant wisp of a man who somehow seemed to bleed into the background of whatever room he was in, even when alone.  
  
Now people took notice. He had changed, and such a transformation couldn't be ignored. Men actually moved aside as he passed. Women, who would have ignored him outright before, now smiled brightly, eyes brimming with all manner of lascivious intent. Not tonight, girls.  
  
Tonight was reserved for the illustrious Mr. Cobblepot.  
  
  
  
Edward finds the so-called “king” of Gotham in his second-floor office, nursing a glass of something dark from behind a giant mahogany desk. His gaze is fixed on an invisible — yet, judging by the glare, utterly offensive — spot on the wall. The dim light seems to play up the purplish shadows beneath Oswald's eyes, and his thin, pale lips have settled into a deep scowl. Perhaps the crown is wearing a bit heavy these days. Oswald is sure to be in a mood. The knot in Edward’s stomach twists a bit. Nerves? Anticipation? He imagines Oswald glowering over him, teeth gritted as his fingers twist in Edward's hair and yank his head back. He can almost feel the cool metal of a knife's edge against his vulnerable throat. The idea isn't entirely unpleasant.  
  
“Mr. Cobblepot, I—”  
  
“Please. _Penguin_ ,” he insists. The nicety holds all the sincerity of a coiled snake, but if it is meant to intimidate, Edward doesn’t bother to notice.  
  
“Oswald,” Ed counters with a wide, close-mouthed grin. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit?”  
  
The man finally tears his gaze away from the wall to glare at the stranger standing before him instead. “I have a feeling you won’t be here that long,” he sneers. “Who are you again?”  
  
“A friend of a friend.”  
  
It was true to a certain extent, and good enough to earn him a spot on Penguin's schedule. But Edward’s coy reply is met with an all too familiar look. The kind usually reserved for finding a bug in one's dinner.  
  
“How did you get in?”  
  
Edward examines his fingernails and ignores Oswald's irritation. “A bit of advice: You really ought to keep your starry-eyed crushes a little more secret. The name Jim Gordon opens your door much too easily.”  
  
There it is. A flicker of recognition. But he clearly isn’t impressed. Yet. “I remember you now,” he scoffs. “Riddles.”  
  
“Edward. Nygma.”  
  
“What is it you want, Nygma?”  
  
Edward frowns and saunters closer, bypassing the high-backed chair opposite Oswald to settle in on the corner of his desk. “I have to say, I’m disappointed in your manners, Oswald. Even so, I think you’ll still be of use to me.”  
  
“You- you’re making demands now?” Oswald chuckles, but nothing about it is jovial. “I think I liked you better when you were spouting riddles at me.”  
  
“Tsk, tsk.” Edward chides. “The last man I riddled ended up— Well, let’s just say he wasn't using his brain for much anyway. But,” he smacks his hands together and grins, “I’m feeling fun today, so you’re in luck.”  
  
No response from Oswald. Well, other than the same stare that he had reserved for the wall. Cue enough to continue, Edward concludes.  
  
"Say my name, and you'll break me, but keep me close and I'm golden. It’s what you desire, and what I require. Do you have what it takes to maintain me?”  
  
More glaring. The answer, of course, is silence, but did he really have to spell it out for him? Explaining a riddle was like explaining a punchline. Those who couldn’t keep up didn’t deserve to be in on it anyway. But slowly Oswald’s expression begins to change. His begrudging smirk is dangerously close to becoming a grin — signal enough that, yes, he is as smart as Edward hoped.  
  
Inside, Edward bounces with glee. Oh, how he wants to smile at the man, to pose a few more riddles and see if Oswald can meet the challenge. So few people have the intellect or the patience for puzzles. But that will have to wait. First, he has a point to make.  
  
“I’ve been watching you for some time, Oswald. Your rise from umbrella boy to ‘royalty’ has been nothing short of ... amusing.”  
  
He chooses his words with care, knowing full well that such a backhanded compliment will ruffle Oswald's feathers. And sure enough, from the corner of his eye, Edward watches as the angry bird fumes. Oswald had no doubt expected Edward to fawn, to marvel at his “meteoric” rise to infamy like so many others have done. But sycophantic flattery will earn no real respect from Penguin, and that’s precisely what Edward is after, what this new life and this new appetite of his hinge upon. He simply cannot have Oswald thinking him weak.  
  
“The GCPD has a whole big file on you, you know. What’s more, I’ve been keeping my own sort of records. I’m very good with the small details, you see, connecting dots that others never even know exist.”  
  
Ed leans forward and fingers the plush fabric of Oswald’s obscenely expensive suit — long, thin fingers making quick work of the gilded buttons on his vest. He'd done this in his daydreams more times than he cared to admit. Slipped his hands beneath Oswald's jacket and slid it off his shoulders, then tore at the buttons of his shirt, and then... Ed's cock stirs at the thought of what always came next. The image of Oswald's petite form bent over that big desk is as clear to him as memory.

Edward is certain he can't push that far, not so soon, but Oswald’s nearly inaudible gasp startles him. No time to think, to do anything but rely on instinct. Ed's fingers continue their teasing ascent, slipping around Oswald's silk tie and gently tugging him closer. The man's lips are just inches from his own now, close enough to share a breath, and he can smell the faint traces of Oswald's cologne. It’s enough to leave Edward truly flustered.  
  
“I’m seeing a lot of dots that lead right back to you," he finally murmurs. "Isn’t that interesting?”  
  
" _Interesting?_ " Oswald’s bright blue eyes bulge, any bubbling desire quickly forgotten. “Listen, _friend_ , if you’ve done your homework as you say, then you’ll know that I don’t take kindly to being threatened. Especially not in my own club.”  
  
Oswald makes a move for the bat he keeps at his side, but Edward springs up from the desk in a blink. The speed clearly catches Oswald off guard, that moment of distraction more than enough to let Edward slam the smaller man's face onto the wooden surface. The meaty thunk, coupled with Oswald's inelegant squawk, is oh so rewarding. Edward wrenches the bat away from his prey and twists the free arm behind the man's back.  
  
“A threat? Oh dear, no. If I were to threaten you, I wouldn’t dare be so oblique. People are much more receptive to threats that deal in specifics. For instance, did you know there are five places in the human arm that are susceptible to breakage? Even a child could make you howl in agony if they found just the right spot.” Edward leans into the man and is rewarded with an indignant whimper. “I may not be built like one of your hired thugs, Mr. Cobblepot, but I am exceedingly brilliant. Don’t think for a second that I’ve come unprepared. I will get what I want from you, one way or another.”  
  
“And what in hell do you want, Nygma?”  
  
Edward smacks Oswald's bat against the desk, nicking its fancy beveled edge. “Ah ah ah, Oswald,” he chides. “Manners.”  
  
A long pause, and then “Please,” Oswald grumbles. " _Ed_."  
  
“As you wish! The fewer you have, the more they’re worth. What I want is very simple, Oswald." Edward giggles, far too excited to contain himself any longer. "I want us to be _friends_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a foreplay chapter, if you will. Smut will have to wait until part 2.


	3. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Oswald come to an agreement.

“I-you what?”

He’s heard him wrong. That has to be it. Oswald cranes his neck to look up at the man pressing him into his own desk and is startled to see that he’s grinning like an overeager child, brown eyes lit with unchecked excitement behind a wayward lock of hair. Actually, excitement would be something of an understatement. The man is practically _bouncing_ with glee.

“Friends,” the lanky man repeats. “I think we would work well together.”

_One way or another._

Oswald can’t help but replay the last few minutes in his head. One moment Edward Nygma had strong-armed him. In the next, he’d proposed friendship. And minutes earlier they'd been close enough to share a heated breath. Much as he fights it, Oswald shivers.

It isn’t the threat so much that gets to him. Frankly, he's had better from far worse, but Nygma’s something else altogether — a loaded gun with a hair trigger and too damn clever for his own good. Oswald is certain the man is nuts, and there’s something deeply unsettling in his almost innocent brand of good-natured psychosis.

And, to be perfectly honest, something irritatingly attractive too. Nygma is all legs and bright white teeth, and the tailored green suit he’s wearing hugs his long, slender body like one of Oswald’s very expensive leather gloves.

It’s really all too easy to get lost in those striking features of his. The big, soulful brown eyes, the perfectly shaped nose, those knife’s-edge cheekbones. He wonders what it would be like to run his thumb across one before reminding himself that he really shouldn’t be so comfortable with Nygma’s length pressing into his back.

“Listen, friend, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I do apologize for my inhospitality. Why don’t we sit,” he offers. “We’ll talk.”

A heavy pause. And then the warm tickle of Nygma’s breath vanishes, leaving a rash of goosebumps in its wake. This is more disappointing than Oswald cares to admit.

_No._

Mustn't indulge such ideas now. Business and pleasure never make good bedfellows, and there's a lump on his forehead reminding him that Ed is clearly here for business. Oswald straightens himself at once and plasters on a grin. “Yes! Wonderful! Let's have a drink. What can I get you?”

Nygma says nothing. In fact, he doesn’t even budge. Most people wouldn’t be so comfortable in another’s personal space, but Edward doesn’t seem bothered in the least. He’s entirely too close, looming like a shadow, near enough that Oswald can smell his peculiar scent hanging between them. Something clean, almost clinical. Something he can’t exactly put his finger on. He’s too close, much too close.

Or maybe it isn’t close enough.

“Do you think I’m a fool, Oswald?”

The mobster blinks once, twice. He’s certain the truth is not what Edward wants to hear.

“Is this another riddle?” he smirks.

“You want to ply me with your expensive liquor and send me away once I’m tipsy, after we’ve ‘bonded’ enough that you think my request will be sated. Well, I’m not so easily fooled. Now, are you going to take me seriously, or should I reacquaint you with your desk again?”

Oswald can’t tell if he’s joking. It’s that damn Cheshire cat grin that mars what would have been a perfectly good threat. And that’s when it hits him.

Dear, psychotic Eddie’s as harmless as a house cat.

He’s counting on this invasion of personal space being off-putting. After all, the man’s no thug, and despite his surprising display of force earlier, his strengths seem to lie in mind games not violence. Oswald smirks. It’s almost cute that Edward thinks he can intimidate him.

Before he can think, he leans into the tall man and lightly runs his hands up Edward’s suit.

The room is so silent that the sound of the dark green jacket hitting the floor is almost jarring. Edward doesn’t make a move, just stares down as the shorter man trails his fingers lower and lower, taking in a sharp breath when they graze against his thigh.

Edward’s resolve looks shaken, like some long-revered fantasy is about come true and he has no idea how to proceed. “I-I don't want to hurt you, Mr. Penguin,” he stammers softly. His eyes are half closed, his breathing heavy as Oswald palms the erection that’s quickly rising beneath his pants. “But I will if I must.”

Oswald reaches up and draws his thumb across Edward’s cheekbone, oddly satisfied at having done so. “I don't think you would,” he muses. Fingers find their way into Ed's dark hair and twist until he's forced to gaze at the ceiling. “In fact, I think you’d prefer it the other way around.”

He produces a tiny switchblade from his pocket, and an inarticulate groan escapes Ed's throat when it pops open with a tiny _click._

The mobster can't help but grin. S _o my new friend gets off on a little danger, hmm?_ Before he can consider what he’s doing, Oswald draws the blade up the front of Edward’s shirt from navel to collar. There are certainly more efficient ways to remove an article of clothing, but wrecking Edward’s nice new suit fills him with untold satisfaction.

The gaudy green fabric parts with ease, and Oswald’s all too pleased with his handiwork until Edward yelps, little crimson beads blossoming from a bright red scratch just beneath his collarbone.

That giant grin melts into something quite terrifying; Oswald finds himself taking a quick step back.  

“Ed, I-”

Before he can finish, Ed pounces on him. Turns out he's less a house cat and more a cheetah. The small switchblade falls out of sight, and they stumble clumsily, bumping against furniture, careening dangerously off balance, until Oswald is suddenly trapped between Ed and the floor-to-ceiling picture window overlooking the street.

He squeezes his eyes shut and braces for blows that never come.  

Instead, delicate fingers tug at Oswald’s silk cravat and then the buttons on his shirt. He shrugs out of his jacket as Ed's mouth crushes against his, not entirely sure where any of this is going to lead.

“Your pants,” Edward commands when their lips finally part. “They’re going to need to come off.”

It isn’t a question, but Oswald can’t help but hesitate. He wonders who might see, whose eyes might glance up from the street and into his window. The thought makes him dizzy, and he feels his mouth go dry.

“I- Someone might—”

“I’m not asking twice.”

It’s as though the air is made of molasses. Oswald moves for his belt but the reflex is slow, and Edward is apparently not a patient man. His hands are at Oswald’s waist, undoing the buckle and pulling roughly at the zipper before the command even leaves his lips.

Oswald is completely exposed now, hard and practically throbbing, and when Edward drops to his knees, the mobster can’t help but moan like some kind of common street whore. Ed’s slender hands grope mercilessly, clawing at his thighs while he mouths the pale skin along Oswald’s hips and down to the base of his cock. He runs his tongue slowly up the shaft before swallowing it deep and then pulling it out with a wet pop.

He does this once, twice, and then a third. When Ed sucks at the glistening tip before finally releasing him, Oswald is certain his head will explode.

“Turn around. Now.”

Oswald knows he should be more angry — after all, how dare this man command him to do anything — but he's still dizzy from Ed's mouth on his cock. Some small part of him, he has to admit, enjoys the forcefulness just a little. And so he turns, the bright lights of Gotham glittering outside as rain pelts against the glass.

He can see Ed’s reflection there too, and the man’s expression can only be described as _hungry_. Thin lips purse as he regards his prey — and there’s no mistaking that’s exactly how Ed views him — eyes unreadable behind the black rims of his glasses.

Edward sticks two fingers into his mouth and pulls the saliva-slicked digits out for Oswald to see. “You’ll enjoy this,” he grins. “Scout’s honor.”

Slick fingers tease their way down between the cheeks of Oswald’s ass, spreading him wide and tracing smooth, gentle circles around the puckered opening. Ed's fingers are surprisingly soft but insistent, and he wastes little time in slipping one of those long fingers inside.

“Fff-fuck,” Oswald moans when Ed slides in deeper. It feels so damn good, so overwhelmingly- _fuck_.

“Relax, Oswald,” Ed murmurs against his skin.

Ed reaches around to grab Oswald’s cock, working his ass with one hand and fisting his dick with the other. He’s throbbing and moaning, unsure how long he’ll last with Edward pumping him this way.

It's as though Ed's done this to him a hundred times over. His hands are quick and greedy, seemingly everywhere at once. And just when Oswald thinks he’s finally grown used to the feel of that long finger working inside of him, Ed adds a second.

To say this isn't how he imagined the night going would be an understatement. And mild-mannered Edward Nygma — with his terrible riddles and smarmy, shit-eating grin — would likely be the last person he’d imagine doing this with. But here they are. And fuck everything else, he wants this — God how he wants _this_.

Oswald sinks back onto Ed’s fingers, relaxing at last. And soon he's so lost to desire that he nearly faints when Ed removes his fingers and replaces them with the warm, gentle lapping of his tongue.

“Fucking- _fuck_ , Ed,” he gasps.

Edwards giggles. “You like that, do you?” The sound is both joyful and inappropriate, and for a moment he’s an impish adolescent again, much too excited about playing with his fascinating new toy. That off-putting enthusiasm is channeled into something useful at _fucking_ last as he continues to work Oswald’s ass. He refuses to let up, clearly enjoying the way the unrelenting swirl of his tongue makes the shorter man squirm against the window.

But before long Ed is back on his feet, leaning in to kiss Oswald’s neck and drag his teeth across his earlobe. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispers. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“Y-yes,” Oswald begs, before adding a sputtered “ _please_ ,” knowing just how much Ed will get off on it. It doesn’t come close to articulating how eager he is to feel the man’s cock slamming into him, but it’s really all he can muster with Ed’s tongue in his ear.

The meager offering is apparently enough, and Oswald silently thanks every deity he’s never believed in when Ed spits into his hand and disappears from view.

Knowing Ed is behind him, stoking his thick cock, getting it slick just for him, makes Oswald's legs quake. Any second he’s going to feel that delicious and terrifying fullness. Any second… But time is dripping by, and Oswald wants him _now_.

“Christ, Ed, just do—”

He bites off the sentence as Edward clamps a large hand over his mouth and pushes his considerable length into him at last. It’s rough and quick and beyond anything Oswald can describe. The sounds emanating from Edward’s lips are laced with profanity and utterly absurd, and what had begun as low, quiet moaning is now so obscene that Oswald can feel his alabaster skin turning crimson. He claws at the window as Ed slams into him, no longer caring who might be on the street below. He can’t escape Ed’s pulsing cock, and God he never wants to.

“Fuck f-fuck fuck _me_ fuck me — oh _God_ , Ed, _fuck_ ,” he whines.

Ed works up a rhythm, hard and steady, nimble fingers digging into Oswald’s hips so hard that the sting of broken skin makes the shorter man wince. He’s screaming inside because he wants it to stop and he wants it to _never, ever stop_ , and God how he wants to run because he hates this powerlessness. But the loss of control, conceding it to Ed is undeniably- _fuckfuckfuuuuck_.

He yelps at the feeling of teeth dragging across his shoulder, which elicits another giggle from the man hammering into him.

“ _Jesus_ , Ed!”

But Edward doesn’t waver. He’s lost to everything but his breakneck pace, and Oswald can tell he’s going to come soon.

“Say it, Oswald,” he pants. “Say it when you come.”

Ed slips his hand around Oswald’s cock and starts pumping the shaft, twisting his hand each time he reaches the head. Oswald can’t think — he doesn’t know what Ed wants from him. He doesn’t know anything except that Edward Nygma owns him, and he’ll do anything to keep it that way.

“I’m... I’m… yours,” he groans, semen spraying the window as he comes. His legs threaten to buckle, and he’s panting like he hasn’t taken a breath in years, but Ed’s hands keep him steady during one last burst of unholy fucking.

Edward comes with a vulgar shout, slamming both of them against the glass as he fills Oswald’s ass. Finally sated, he wraps a shaky arm around Oswald and presses his lips against his neck. “You’re mine,” he breathes. “Mine.”

They separate moments later, and Ed straightens his glasses and smooths his hair back into place in an attempt look presentable once more. It’s almost laughable; no amount of fussing can erase the salacious smear of blood across his chest or mend his tattered shirt, but Ed puts on his jacket and strolls across the room as if nothing is amiss at all.

Ed pauses briefly at the door, that terrible grin spread wide across his face. "Oh, one more thing," he chuckles.

His gaze shifts to the long black umbrella in the corner and then back to his new friend, Oswald still breathing heavily with his pants around his ankles. “I’ll be taking this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click here to see this chapter visualized beautifully.](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/137631491904/new-obsession-chapter-3-by-riddlelvr)


	4. Can't Get You Out Of My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald can't get Ed off his mind, so he arranges a late-night meeting.

Gotham’s streets are rarely quiet, even in the dead of night, but this particular street on this particular night is deathly still, and Oswald does not trust that in the slightest. When one lives a life of crime long enough, the nose becomes attuned to the foul stench of a trap, and this … this smells only marginally better than the docks on a hot August afternoon.

He reminds himself that it was his idea. That he’s the one in control. That Edward Nygma isn’t the kind of dangerous he need worry too much about. Even so, the smart move would have been to bring Zsasz. Or Butch, or Gabe. Anyone really. But this is one meeting that has to be handled alone.

Oswald fidgets beneath his fur-trimmed coat and pulls it tighter as a gnawing breeze ruffles his hair. _Dammit Ed. Are you coming or not?_ _And is this really worth freezing over?_ He casts a glance down the darkened street, still oddly quiet. _Or worse?_

Ed gets five more minutes to show and not a second longer. It’s a quarter past three, and Oswald’s already waited longer than he would for anyone else. That simple fact nags at him, like the dull but persistent sensation of having something stuck between your teeth. Much as he’d like to floss Nygma from his mind, he can’t, for reasons he doesn’t quite fathom. What is it about that man that intrigues him so much? Nothing would please Oswald more than to wipe the smug expression from the forensic expert’s too-handsome face, to knock him down a peg or four. But not because he hates him; because he wants to see what Nygma will do in return. 

There’s a part of Oswald that gets off on the acute fear that comes with not knowing what will happen next. Always has. He never felt more alive than when his face was in the dirt kissing Fish Mooney’s feet, or when Sal Maroni’s hungry gaze bore into him as though he could see right through his skin. 

Or when Edward Nygma walked into his office. 

Every time he closes his eyes, Oswald can see Ed’s staring back at him from behind those outdated glasses perched on his nose. He remembers everything about that night; the feel of Ed’s fingers pressing into his flesh, the hot breath on the back of his neck, the panic bleeding into bliss as Ed drives into him again and again. As it turns out, the memory of someone fucking you against a window isn’t so easy to just forget. 

Oswald had been certain Ed would return within a week to collect on their “friendship,” but after that auspicious evening, the man seemed to disappear. Months went by without so much as a word, and the more time passed, the more impatient Oswald grew. He was eventually able to ascertain that Ed had taken a long overdue sabbatical, though his precise whereabouts were a mystery to all.

That was the blessing and curse of Edward Nygma. So quiet and unassuming for so long that no one paid him a lick of attention unless they had to. He could murder a bus full of choir boys and wear their teeth around his neck, and no one would ever suspect him. 

But it was hell for digging up information. If Ed didn’t want to be found — well, he simply wouldn’t be. No, Oswald had to be creative to flush him out. It required a provocation, in a language the puzzle-loving psychopath would understand. And so, Oswald had crafted him a riddle. 

He’d spent the better part of a day crafting said riddle, and a week wondering if or how Edward would respond. Then two days ago, an envelope arrived. It was a garish shade of green but otherwise unremarkable. Inside was a piece of fine stationery, lettered in what he presumed was Ed’s own writing, the reply cryptic but clear. Ed would meet, but on his terms. 

_ Which apparently means whenever he damn well feels like it, _ Oswald grouses.

As if on cue, Ed appears across the street, emerging from the shadows as if he’s been there all along. Maybe he has. It would be just like him to make Oswald wait, simply so that he could observe him a while. 

“Ed. Good of you to come, my friend.”

The lanky man approaches slowly, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long black coat, looking every bit like a caged animal waiting for the right moment to break its bonds and rip out its master’s throat. With every step Ed takes, Oswald feels the knot of anticipation in his gut twist a little tighter. 

“You’ve been bad,” Edward grins. 

But this grin isn’t boyish and innocent. This grin is written as if he can already taste blood on his lips. As if he’s already admired the bruises his groping hands will leave after he pushes Oswald up against the crumbling brick in the alleyway and fucks him right on the street. He’s heard the strangled cries from Oswald’s throat as he comes, and he’s hard with anticipation. It takes every bit of self-control not to grab the man and strip off his pants right then, but Edward knows that waiting will be much sweeter.

First they must play. First, Oswald will learn that certain incitements demand punishment. 

Ed’s grin melts away, and the steely gaze left in its place is both terrifying and unbelievably arousing. He takes a final step closer, pulling a length of black leather from his coat and playfully wrapping it around his large, gloved hands.

“Is that...?” Oswald smirks, eyeing what appears to be some sort of leash. Eddie  _ has _ learned a few new tricks while he was away. 

“Oh Oswald.” Edward’s voice is low and dark, and Oswald can’t be certain whether his new friend is playing or not. “I think it’s time that we had some fun.”

“Ed…” 

He wants to take a step back, but his legs won’t allow the concession. Instead he lets Ed take him by the wrists and wind the cord around and around. The tall man looks all too pleased with his handiwork, then gives the excess leather a good, hard yank.

“Ow! Fuck!” Oswald snaps, but Ed is clearly more amused than threatened by the outburst. 

Another sharp jerk forces the mobster off balance and onto his knees. “That’s better,” Ed laughs. “You look good on your knees, Oswald.”

“Fuck you,” the shorter man spits. “I didn’t agree to- to  _ this _ .”

“You wanted to play; that’s what your invitation said.” Ed runs his long, slender fingers through Oswald’s ebony hair and smirks. “Well, this is the game I want to play.”

Ed looks infinitely more smug than usual from this angle, like a hungry cat regarding a wounded, helpless bird. “Now, are you going to play nice or should I gag you?” He unzips his pants and smiles. “Though I suppose I’m going to do that either way.”

“Does this amuse you, Ed?”

“The king of Gotham on his knees in some disgusting alley, all tied up and at my disposal? I’m more interested in what this is doing to you.” He slips his foot between Oswald’s knees and slides it up to his groin, where he can feel the mobster already erect and straining against his expensive trousers. “Just as I thought. You enjoy this.” 

Oswald merely sets his jaw and glares. He’s not sure which is more irritating: That he does, in fact, enjoy this, or that Ed gets to be right. 

“I bet you’d do just about anything I asked of you.” Ed cocks his head to the side, considering his options, before letting go of the makeshift leash and backing further down the litter-strewn alley. “I want you to crawl, Oswald. Crawl to me, and then tell me what you want.”

_ I want to stab you in the fucking throat  _ is Oswald’s first thought. But something makes him move, makes him drag himself across the grimy asphalt and over to where Ed’s waiting. It isn’t easy trying to crawl with one’s wrists bound, and it’s harder still with a bad leg, but Oswald pushes forward, not entirely certain what he’s going to do when he reaches his gangly suitor. 

_ I could tell him to fuck off. I could stand up, spit in his pretty face and go home. Forget I ever entertained any of this ridiculousness.  _

Oswald resolves to do just that. But when he reaches Ed, he looks down at his blackened hands and his soiled clothes and something inside of him just clenches. Any other man would be breathing his last, and Oswald would have eight different revenge scenarios tap-dancing around his skull, but the indignity of being like this in front of Ed is undeniably thrilling. Oswald’s so hard that it hurts, and he’s ready to do anything for that blissful release.

He looks up from the dirt to Ed’s face — God how the sight of him towering overhead makes him quiver — and forces himself to say the words. “Ed. May I please?”

“Please  _ what, _ Oswald?”

_ Fuck. Of course he wants to hear it. _ “Will you please let me …  _ please _ you?”

There’s a pause, then Ed hastily frees his length from his pants. “Well, go on then. Don’t just stare at it.”

Oswald can’t help but stare just a little though. Ed is — and there’s no more delicate way to put it — quite large, and Oswald marvels at how he ever endured the man fucking him. It’s difficult enough to imagine how he’s going to take him all in his mouth.  

He starts slowly, dragging his tongue from the base of the shaft and up to the head, drawing a gasp from Ed that pierces the silence on that quiet little street. Oswald repeats the act once more before finally daring to take him into his mouth. He’s never done this before, but Ed’s reaction tells him something is going right, and soon he begins to lose himself to the rhythm of sucking and slurping, and the sting of Ed’s fingers insistently tugging his hair. 

“Tell me, Oswald,” Ed purrs, “how do I taste?”

Oswald freezes. Instinct tells him to back off the man’s cock to answer, but Ed’s enormous hands refuse to budge from Oswald’s head.

“Answer me,” Ed demands.

He can barely breathe with his mouth full, let alone speak, so Oswald can only moan around the man’s dick in response. 

It’s then that Ed lets himself go, driving hard into Oswald’s mouth with such fervor that the mobster fears he’ll black out at any moment. He can no longer feel the cold gnawing at his fingers or the incessant aching in his leg; it’s all Ed and his relentless thrusting, and that thick, unyielding cock flirting with the back of his throat. 

With each movement of his hips, Ed gets louder, and it’s making Oswald whimper for relief of his own. But with his wrists awkwardly bound, he can do nothing to ease his agony — and even if he could, he wouldn’t dare for fear of how Ed might react. He’s never felt so utterly used before. Exhaustion is making him weary, yet Oswald soon feels himself slipping, coming hard in his already soiled trousers as Ed fills his mouth with a deep, labored groan. 

“Christ, Oswald,” he sighs. “Now be a good boy and swallow it all.”

Oswald considers for a moment what it would be like to spit the slightly salty fluid back in Ed’s face, to let the satisfaction that comes from petulant defiance wash over him like a cleansing balm. Such sweet gratification is within his grasp, if he’ll only make the move. But in the end, with lips trembling and forehead damp with sweat, he looks Ed in his cold, black eyes and does as he’s told. 

Completely satisfied, Ed’s demon evaporates just like that, and the taller man gently helps Oswald back on his feet.

“Here.” He looks almost shy as he offers Oswald a simple white handkerchief from his breast pocket. “For your hands.”

“I fucking hate you, you know.”

Ed smiles. “No you don’t.”

Oswald scowls. Because, once again, Ed is right.


	5. For You, Dear Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald offers Edward a gift, and Ed realizes just how close he's grown to his friend.

Edward Nygma had always been truthful with Oswald Cobblepot, with one notable exception.

“You’re better off unencumbered,” he’d told him once, as the mobster stood before him, wounded in body and broken of soul, utterly hopeless in the wake of his beloved mother’s murder.

Edward really had believed his advice at the time. The euphoria over his burgeoning body count had made him feel powerful, and inside of him awakened a feeling of utter freedom that he never imagined possible. He had embraced it, wholeheartedly, shedding the guise of Edward Nygma, utter nobody — to be reborn as the superior being he was always fated to be.

It was satisfying work, particularly the crafting of clever clues sprinkled behind, clues that were much too brilliant for most to unravel. And there was a sublime satisfaction borne from cutting into flesh and watching as some sorry imbecile’s frantic, pleading eyes slowly turned vacant beneath the shroud of death. But as time slogged by, Edward found that perhaps being “free” wasn’t as fulfilling as he had first believed.

Killing was a release of sorts, a way to regain that fleeting sense of bliss. He took to it with great flair, employing ever more creative methods of inflicting pain and death. But after a while, the bodies and the blood became a tuneless clamor, and instead of red blood and pink, mangled flesh, he saw only black and white lumps of increasingly dissatisfying waste. He began to long for someone to share his gifts with, someone who would appreciate his masterpieces. After all, what point is there in creating a symphony if no one is around to hear it?

Edward found that someone in the Penguin, a man whose taste for destroying beautiful and not-so-beautiful things alike rivaled his own. In the beginning, Oswald had been little more than a conquest of sorts. Edward wanted to best him, to own him, to put Gotham’s most powerful crime lord at his feet. But Oswald turned out to be quite different from what Edward had come to expect from the city’s undistinguished underworld.

The Penguin wasn’t just some blood-thirsty criminal; Gotham’s streets were littered with those low-wit cretins, and not a one was worth even a cursory glance. No, Oswald had refinement and intellect (such as it was) that set him well above the rest. He and Edward could talk about art, converse about business, debate politics — anything really. And though he did a fair amount of grumbling, Oswald even indulged Edward his riddles from time to time. At some point, the two men began to spend more time in each other’s company than not.

It is while sharing one such evening together that Edward realizes that the truth he'd once so boldly proclaimed to his companion had been a lie.

 

“I’ve got something for you, Ed.”

Lips set in thin line, pale blue eyes crackling with excitement, Oswald looks quite pleased with himself as he holds his hands out before his friend.

In the year that they’ve known each other, Edward had come to expect gifts of the sartorial sort from Oswald. Luxurious suits, soft leather gloves, garish tie pins. All manner of accoutrements, carefully chosen and very, very expensive, as befitting the taste of a mobster with a flair for the theatric.

While admitting to a newfound appreciation for the well-tailored suits, Edward had never been overfond of the frivolous finery. But Oswald’s current offerings don’t appear to be of the same nature, and Edward finds himself uncharacteristically puzzled when Oswald offers him a very oddly shaped box.

“Is this a riddle?”

The query is genuine, which draws an overly dramatic eye roll from Oswald. “Just open the box, Ed.”

Edward, flashing a mouth full of perfect white teeth, looks something akin to a child facing a room full of gifts on Christmas morning. “Alrighty.”

He takes the long, thin box from Oswald; it’s much heavier than it looks, and part of him wants to shake it first and guess at the contents. But Oswald is already impatient, so instead, Ed hastily slides off the lid and unfolds the delicate paper concealing his prize. He pulls out a long silver cane, the handle inlaid with two dozen tiny emeralds and curved in such a way that its resemblance to a question mark is unmistakable.

“Ozzie…” Ed, for once, finds himself nearly speechless.

“You like it?”

“It’s exquisite,” Ed marvels. “And heavy.”

“Yes, well, I thought you might enjoy misusing it a bit.” Oswald holds out his other hand and drops a small silver key into Ed’s palm. “Shall we?”

  

Oswald’s place is larger than it appears from the street. It would never be mistaken for Wayne manor, but it is clear that the mobster has an eye for opulence, and Oswald is very much playing king. The interiors are lushly decorated with deep reds and purples, and velvet drips from the windows like an oozing wound. It could all be quite tacky, but Oswald adds enough understated charm to keep the more ostentatious elements in check.

Ed follows his friend up the wide staircase to the second floor, down a hallway he’s never seen. Dark mahogany paneling lines the walls — bare except for the occasional sconce offering the smallest amount of light possible. The dim light makes it appear as though the corridor will go on indefinitely, but it isn’t long before Oswald stops in front of a door and waits for Ed to use his new key.

“This is the second part of your gift. I do hope you enjoy it, my friend.”

Stepping into the large room is like stepping into another place entirely, and nothing inside looks as though it belongs with the rest of Oswald’s estate. The space is windowless but bright, and exceedingly clean, with crisp white walls and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Ed is so dazzled by all of it — the long metal tables, the rows of small precision tools, the scent of various disinfectants — that he nearly overlooks the figure in the center of it all, bound to a plain metal chair, hood fit snugly over his head. The unwilling guest wiggles in his seat and spews a desperate, muffled plea to his captors. It goes entirely ignored.

“Ozzie,” Ed grins, “this is beyond perfection.”

Oswald studies his friend’s face, pleased at the glee he’s elicited. “I should mention, this room is soundproof. And you now have the only key. It’s yours, Ed. Use it however you like, whenever you like.”

“But what made you do this?”

“You shouldn’t be hauling bodies in and out of your apartment all the time. One day you’ll get caught, and I cannot have that.”

“You forget that my IQ is higher than every cop in the GCPD put together and multiplied by five,” Ed says with a scowl. But his expression softens as he remembers his manners; Ed really is grateful, after all. “Thank you, Oswald. This… is a wonderful gift.”

Edward runs a long, thin finger across the surface of one of the shiny metal tables and makes a face; Oswald notes with great satisfaction that it’s the same face Ed makes just before he comes. Walking around the room, Edward takes stock of his tools, mentally cataloguing each, and giggling whenever he imagines a particularly nasty use for one.

At last, Edward turns his attention to the sobbing hostage, who up until this point, has gone nearly unnoticed, despite his constant wailing. “And who have we here?”

Oswald cannot help but smile; he knew Ed would love this part of his gift as much as any. “Someone who is of no use to my organization any longer. I thought you might like to test your new toys.”

Dark eyes lighting with utter malice, Ed’s jack o'lantern grin is as terrifying as it is entrancing. “Oh, very much so.” He fingers the selection of smaller scalpels, searching for just the right one, before turning back to Oswald. “Will you stay and watch?”

 

There was something deeply satisfying about watching Edward work. Edward’s aim, as always, was to keep his victim alive for as long as possible, while inflicting the maximum amount of damage - crucial, if one wants to extract information before the end. And Edward, as a man of intellect, had an unquenchable thirst for information, no matter how inconsequential.

On one occasion, he had gotten everything from bank account numbers to decades-old chat room passwords from Crazy Eyes DeLucchi, a twitchy little cunt who thought he could intimidate Oswald by virtue of brutishness alone. Ed would have none of that, and took it upon himself to deal with old Crazy Eyes the best way he knew how — namely, by employing a sturdy pair of hedge clippers and a fifth-grade math test. It goes without saying that the brute failed, spectacularly. 

But while Edward could drag out a simple killing for hours, it wasn’t merely because he was sadistic (though, clearly, that was a factor). He was in it for the science as much as anything. Most of his methods were borne from simple curiosity that demanded to be indulged — i.e. Will blood clot under water? Let’s give some sorry bastard a healthy knick and find out.

And Edward’s curiosity proved quite insatiable.

Oswald, for his part, liked to watch these gruesome affairs, because nothing was more arousing than the sight of Edward spattered with another man’s blood, sweaty curls matted to his forehead, his eyes ever thoughtful as he found new ways to make a man scream. By the time Ed has thoroughly gutted their current guest, Oswald is absolutely aching to feel the touch of Ed’s blood-slicked hands against his skin.

“That was brilliant, my friend.”

When Edward turns around, pulled from his reverie by Oswald’s praise, he’s absolutely drenched with blood. It’s smeared across one of his lenses and pools enticingly in the corner of his mouth. Oswald is struck with the overwhelming urge to drag his tongue across Ed’s lips to clean it off. And had it been Edward’s own blood staining that perfect mouth, Oswald would have.

Instead, Oswald fetches a damp rag, and sidling close to Ed, begins to wipe him clean. The exchange is gentle — too gentle, and Edward is suddenly rendered breathless with the realization that, at some point, he became much too fond of Oswald Cobblepot.

In that moment, Edward feels as though he’s lost control, that something intangible has slipped through his fingers. He’s overcome with a desperate need to wrest back what he’s worked so hard to attain. And so, he does the only thing that seems to make any sense, grabbing Oswald hard by the wrists and sneering down at him over the top of his blood spattered glasses. He reaches down to palm Oswald through his trousers, and upon feeling his friend erect, scowls.

“You can’t ever just control yourself, can you?” he mutters.

In one quick motion, Edward spins Oswald around and bends him across the soiled metal table, then pulls his surgical gloves off with a long, wet snap. “You’re fucking disgusting getting off on this,” he growls. “Conducting yourself this way.”

“Ed…”

“Stop talking.”

Oswald clutches the metal table as Edward savagely relieves him of his pants and shorts, outright ripping the cloth when it doesn’t yield as quickly as he’d like. It’s been ages since Edward’s been in such a state, and Oswald can’t help but bubble with excitement. While still decidedly rough, their carnal interactions had softened of late, now more about enjoying each other than taking and displaying power. Oswald isn’t sure what to make of this sudden aggressiveness, but he wants Ed inside of him right fucking now.

“Please, Ed-” he whines before Ed clamps a hand firmly over his mouth. The scent of the latex gloves still clings to Ed’s large hands, and Oswald moans into those slender fingers as he recalls the blood that soaked them just moments earlier.

“Is that what you like? _Dirty cunt_. _”_ Ed spits into his hand and gives himself a few quick strokes before he pushes himself roughly into Oswald’s ass. There’s little buildup, and Oswald lets out a guttural sort of shriek; he wasn’t ready to take all of Ed in so fast.

As Ed begins an unrelenting rhythm of thrusts, Oswald can’t help but sob. It really fucking hurts. That’s all Oswald can think of, and he’s tempted to beg his friend to stop until at last Edward removes the hand from his mouth and reaches around to grasp Oswald’s aching cock, stroking with the same blistering clip he’s keeping as he pounds into his ass.

The seesaw of pain and pleasure makes Oswald’s head swim. One moment it’s too much, too hard, too fast; the next he’s moaning so loudly that he’s thankful for the room’s entirely necessary soundproofing.

This, at last, feels good. Great even. Ed works him vigorously; it’s a pace neither of them will be able to maintain for very long, and Oswald can do little more than cling to the table and ride it all out.

“Fuck, Ed, _fuuuuck.”_

There was a time when Oswald’s cries would have made Ed push harder, when he would have relished squeezing Oswald just a bit more, to see just how far he could go. But now when Ed hears it, he slows, bending forward to lightly kiss Oswald’s neck, taking time to savor the feeling of Oswald’s muscles enveloping the length of him. It feels so fucking good, and he’s so, so close now.

“You’re going to come for me now, Oz,” Ed whispers, his voice startling in its tenderness. “Please.”

It’s with a shaking, exhausted cry that Oswald shoots hard as Ed strokes him, adding a little more filth to the once pristine floor. Ed follows a moment later, groaning loudly as he pushes into Oswald with a final, deep thrust.

When all is said and done, they sit together on the soiled table, neither knowing exactly what to say. Something about this time feels different from all the others. They both know it, but putting it into words turns out to be much harder than either imagined.

They indulge the silence for a few moments more, surveying the grisly mess they’ve made to christen Ed’s gift, while Ed summons the nerve to tell Oswald exactly what's on his mind. He’s never been good with expressing his feelings, and really, he’s never had a need to try before. None of the people who have flitted in and quickly out of his life has ever been worth making the effort.

But Oswald, as he’s slowly come to realize, is different from anyone else he's known. And Ed wants to try. He has to.

“Oz?”

“Mmm.”

Ed swallows hard. This isn't just about admitting how he feels — it's more than that. A sickening truth pooling in his gut, Ed comes to the horrifying conclusion that he hasn't been lying to Oswald at all. It's simply that's he's been wrong. And Edward Nygma, who took such great pride in flaunting his superior intellect, hated to be wrong. 

“Look, Oswald. What I told you once, about not having attachments… About it being smarter not to... I think maybe I was misguided. You and I, we’re better off to-”

Oswald puts a finger to Ed’s lips before he can go on. There’s really no need to say anything further, because Oswald knows exactly what Ed wants to say and how hard it is for him to do so.

And the truth of the matter is, he’s known for far longer than his friend.

“I know, Ed. I know.”

Edward Nygma never liked to be wrong. But in this case, he was glad for it.

**Author's Note:**

> [For a fantastic summation of this sordid little tale, please click here to see my amazing girlfriend's beautiful, brilliant piece of art. Suck it bitches.](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/156012385244/new-obsession-by-riddlelvr-youll-enjoy-this)
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoyed this story? I have something much, much filthier! Check out [The Bird and the Worm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6211234/chapters/14229868)!


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